Once more the original object of my journey into Germany stood clearly before me.  An extraordinary series of adventures had deflected me from my course, but never from my purpose.  I realized that I should never feel happy in my mind again if I left Germany without being assured as to my brother’s fate.  And now I was on the threshold either of a great discovery or of an overwhelming disappointment.

For the street called In den Zelten was my next objective.  I knew I might be on the wrong track altogether in my interpretation of what I was pleased to term in my mind the message from Francis.  If I had read it falsely—­if, perhaps, it were not from him at all—­then all the hopes I had built on this mad dash into the enemy’s country would collapse like a house of cards.  Then, indeed, I should be in a sorry pass.

But my luck was in, I felt.  Hitherto, I had triumphed over all difficulties.  I would trust in my destiny to the last.

I had taken the precaution of turning up my overcoat collar and of pulling my hat well down over my eyes, but no one troubled me.  I reflected that only Clubfoot and Schmalz were in a position to recognize me and that, if I steered clear of places like hotels and restaurants and railway stations, where criminals always seem to be caught, I might continue to enjoy comparative immunity.  But the trouble was the passport question.  That reminded me.

I must get rid of Semlin’s passport.  As I walked along I tore it into tiny pieces, dropping each fragment at a good interval from the other.  It cost me something to do it, for a passport is always useful to flash in the eyes of the ignorant.  But this passport was dangerous.  It might denounce me to a man who would not otherwise recognize me.

I had some difficulty in finding In den Zelten.  I had to ask the way, once of a postman and once of a wounded soldier who was limping along with crutches.  Finally, I found it, a narrowish street running off a corner of the great square in front of the Reichstag.  No. 2 was the second house on the right.

I had no plan.  Nevertheless, I walked boldly upstairs.  There was but one flat on each floor.  At the third story I halted, rather out of breath, in front of a door with a small brass plate inscribed with the name “Eugen Kore.”  I rang the bell boldly.

An elderly man-servant opened the door.

“Is Herr Eugen Kore at home?” I asked.

The man looked at me suspiciously.

“Has the gentleman an appointment?” he said.

“No,” I replied.

“Then the Herr will not receive the gentleman,” came the answer, and the man made as though to close the door.

I had an inspiration.

“A moment!” I cried, and I added the word “Achilles” in a low voice.

The servant opened the door wide to me.

“Why didn’t you say that at once?” he said.  “Please step in.  I will see if the Herr can receive you.”